The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1887-11-27
CHAPTER II.


IN WHICH JOHN REAPS THE wHIRLwIND.
Abont half past 10 it was Johns brave good
fortune to offer his arm to Miss Mackenzie, and
her home The night was chill and
starry. All the way eastward the trees of the
different gardens rustled and looked black. Up
the stone gully of Leith Walk, when they came
to cross it, the breeze made rush and sent he
flames of the street lamps quavering; and, when
at last they had mounted to the Royal Terrace,
where Captain Mackenzie lived. great salt
freshness came in their faces from the
These phases of the walk remained written on
Johns memory. each emphasized by the touch
of that light hand on his arm; and behind all
these aspects of the nocturnal city he saw, in
his minds eye picture of the lighted drawing
at home where he had sat talking with
Flora and his father, from the other end had
looked on with kind and ronical smile. John
had read the significance of that smile, which
might have escaped stranger. Mr.. Nicholson
had remarked mis- sons ENHANCEMENT with salts
faction. tinged with hurnor; and his smile. if it
still was a thought contemptuous, had implied
consent.
AT the Captains door the girl held out her
hand with certain emphasis. and John took it
and kent IL little longer, and said, ''Ciood
night, Flora dear" and was instantly thrown
into much fear by his presumption. But she
bell; and, while she waiting for the door
open, kept close in the porch, and talked to him
from that point as out of a fortfcation. She
had knitted shawl her head; her blue
Highland eyes took the light from the neighbor
ing street lamp and sparkled; and, when the
door opened and closed upon her, John felt
He proceeded slowly back along the terrace in
tender glow; and wnen he came to Greenside
Church he halted in doubtful mind. Over the
crown OF the Cation n to his left lay the way
to Colettes, where Alan would soon be looking
for his arrival, and where he would now have
more consented to go than he would have
willfully wallowed in bog; the touch of the
girls hand on his sleeve. and the kindly light in
his fathers eyes, both loudly forbddng. But
right before him was the way home, which
pointed only to bed. place of little ease for one
whose
whose not very ardent heart was just then tu-
multuousy moved. The hilltop. the cool air Of
the night, the company of the great monuments,
the sight of the city under his feet, with its
hills and valleys and crossing files of lamps,
drew him by all he had of the poetic, and he
turned that way, aud by that quite innocent de-
Fiction ripened the crop of his venial errors for
the sickle of destiny.
On seat the hill above Greenside he sat
for perhaps half an hour, looking down upon
The lamps of Edinburgh, and up at the lamps of
heaven. Wonderful were the resolves he
formed; beautiful and kindly were the vistas of
future life that sped before him. He uttered to
himself the name of Flora in SO many touching
and dramatic keys, that he became at length
fairly melted with tenderness, and could have
sung aloud At that juncture q certain creasing
in his great coat caught his ear. He put his
hand into his pocket, pulled forth the envelope
that held the money, and sat stupeied. The
Cation hill, about this period, had ill-name of
nights. and to be sitting there with e40O that did
not belong to him was hardly wise. He looked
up. There was man in a very bad hat, little
scenery; from little on the other second
night-walker was drawing very quietly near.
Up jumped John The envelope fell from his
hands; he stopped to get it, and at the same mo-
ment both men ran in and closed with him.
A little after, he got his feet very sore and
shaken, the poorer by purse which contained
exactly one penny postage stamp by a cambria
handkerchief, and by the allimportant envelope.
Here was young man whom, at the high
est point of loverly exaltation, there had fallen
a blow too sharp to be supported alone; and not
fria
was sitting at supper-ay, and oven expecting
him. Was it not IN the nature of man that he
should run there2 He went in quest of symua-
thy-in Quest of that drol article that all
suppose ourselves to want when in strait, and
have agreed 20 call advice; and he went BESIDES
with vague but rather splendid expectations of
relief. Alan was rich. would be when he
came of age By stroke of the pen he might
remedy this misfortune, and avert that dreaded
interview with Mr.. Nicholson, from which John
now shrank in imagination as the hand draws
back from fire.
Close under the Cation Hill there runs GER
tain narrow avenue, part street, part road. The
head of 1t faces the doors of the prison; its tail
descends into the sunless slums of the Low
Cation. On hand it is overhung by the
crags of the hill, the other by an old grave
yard. Between these two the roadway runs in
trench. sparsely lighted at night, sparsely fire.
Quented by day, and bordered, when sit has
cleared the place OF tombs. by dingy and ambig-
nous houses One of these was the house of
Coletse, and at his door ill-starred John was
presently beating for admttancc. In an evil
hour ne seIsned the jealous inquiries or the con-
traband otel-keeper IN evil hour he pene-
trated into the somewhat unsavory interior.
Alan, to be sure. was there, seated in room lit
by noisy gas jets, beside dirty tablecloth, en-
gagged on a coarse meal, ana in the company of
several tipsy members of the junior bar But
Alan not sober; he had lost q thousand
pounds upon a horse-race, had received the news
at dinner time, aud was now in default of any
possible of ex.ricaton, drowning the
memory of his predica ment He to help John!
The thing was impossible; he couldn't help him
self.
III you have a beast of a father" said he, "I
can tell you have brute of o trustee"
I'm not going to hear my father called
beast said John, with beating heart, feeling
that he risked the last sound rivet of the chain
that bound him TO life.
But Alan quite eood-natured.
ZAP right, old fellow said he. MOS
respec BILE man your father" And he intro